Just because you know, given reason and half a chance, that one may lie, shirk duty, avoid the issue, self-interested (who wouldn’t be?), don’t assume I’m guilty, and don’t tell me what to do. Sure you can sympathize with me, you say, but I can’t sympathize with you. Blind to my own unkindnesses, I shrink to the letter of misunderstanding, how petty, how small of me. But you’re an ogre, a tyrant, to tell me, threaten, “Don’t eat my apples, frighten my cow; here—spin this straw into gold, while I attend the prince’s ball.” Poor me, I’m so innocent and misunderstood. Short-term gain; I lose. 14 July 1982